Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Patriotic.
The New York Times website has a feature that artistically displays, in a single word, the feelings of both John McCain and Barack Obama supporters. The word that I put down yesterday afternoon, during some downtime in our get out the vote operation, was Patriotic. A first, perhaps. True, I'm proud of our country, and have been for quite some time. My first visits to third world countries brought me perspective. The United States not only has excellent infrastructure, education and opportunity, but we also have the wherewithal to see change in a short period of time. In the places I've visited - Cambodia and Tanzania - positive change can take a lifetime. Meanwhile, if there's a problem here, we can move to get results almost immediately. Our country is beautiful and I feel fortunate to have had the opportunities that exist nowhere else.
Nonetheless, Patriotic is not a word that I'd generally use to describe myself. Perhaps it's youthful naivety. Perhaps it's because, outside of 9/11, I've never been a part of a unifying movement. But yesterday, and today, and hopefully for a long time, I feel Patriotic. Today, I am proud to be an American. We did something huge yesterday, something that will go down in history, something that we can tell our children and grandchildren about with smiles on our faces. My father was in the marching band for Johnson's inaugural parade, an experience he'll never forget. I will cling, with pride, with tears, with joy to what happened on November 4, 2008. I will never forget.
Here are a few moments throughout my volunteer work on the Obama campaign in the past several days, ones that have left photographic imprints on my heart.
One.
The same day that I canvassed and came upon the young girl who wanted God to be President, I knocked on the door of a white couple in their sixties. They brought me into their doorway, which is a canvassing no-no. We're not to enter homes. For good reason. Instead of allowing me to ask my three questions and move on, they demanded that I tell them why I voted for Obama. I explained my case, giving my personal reasons for supporting him. I believe in grassroots work. I respect the fact that he chose Christianity as an adult, as opposed to allowing faith to be a cultural decision. I believe him when he says that we are not as divided as some might think. His views and goals match up with mine; he cares about the general well-being of people. Etcetera, etcetera. And then they came after me with angry attacks, both aimed at Senator Obama and myself.
He's a socialist. He's a Muslim. He's the anti-Christ. He supports Acorn. He has a crazy pastor. He hangs out with terrorists. McCain's attack ads and Sarah Palin's rhetoric had clearly done well with this couple.
When I tried to leave, the man looked at me and asked me if I was a part of Acorn, and then told me that I need to learn to think. He told me that I needed to think long and hard about what I was doing. In his eyes, I was a domestic terrorist. I was stunned. I had no idea what to say. And so I told a story, a story about a family member whose health care needs have been overlooked by our government.
"I'm volunteering - not getting paid, sir - for Obama because we need change." And I wept. In the doorway. The woman looked at me for a split second, and I'd like to think that she saw me as a human, not a demon. I excused myself and moved on, willing myself to finish the route and wait to weep, silently, in my car.
Two.
I spent the majority of my time working in an inner city neighborhood, with the idea that most people in Clintonville are pretty aware of their rights, turn out to vote, and are crunchy in general. The Linden area needed my help. Monday evening, I arrived to do a literature drop with polling locations. I spent the evening doing this literature drop with my friend Theresa (who was in town from New York state and wanted to help) and five Somali high school boys.
We were a team, running down the streets, dropping signs on the doors of Obama supporters. These boys couldn't vote, yet they wanted to help. They excitedly asked me if I knew any state politicians, if I'd met Obama, and where I went to college. They wanted to know the details of Mary Jo Kilroy's policies (an answer I could not give them). They were energetic and bright.
When I asked them where they wanted to go to college, they all said Harvard.
"Where Barack Obama went," they explained.
I hope they make it. And after what happened yesterday, I'm a firm believer that anything can happen.
That, my friends, is what hope looks like. It's not that bad. And neither is patriotism.
The New York Times website has a feature that artistically displays, in a single word, the feelings of both John McCain and Barack Obama supporters. The word that I put down yesterday afternoon, during some downtime in our get out the vote operation, was Patriotic. A first, perhaps. True, I'm proud of our country, and have been for quite some time. My first visits to third world countries brought me perspective. The United States not only has excellent infrastructure, education and opportunity, but we also have the wherewithal to see change in a short period of time. In the places I've visited - Cambodia and Tanzania - positive change can take a lifetime. Meanwhile, if there's a problem here, we can move to get results almost immediately. Our country is beautiful and I feel fortunate to have had the opportunities that exist nowhere else.
Nonetheless, Patriotic is not a word that I'd generally use to describe myself. Perhaps it's youthful naivety. Perhaps it's because, outside of 9/11, I've never been a part of a unifying movement. But yesterday, and today, and hopefully for a long time, I feel Patriotic. Today, I am proud to be an American. We did something huge yesterday, something that will go down in history, something that we can tell our children and grandchildren about with smiles on our faces. My father was in the marching band for Johnson's inaugural parade, an experience he'll never forget. I will cling, with pride, with tears, with joy to what happened on November 4, 2008. I will never forget.
Here are a few moments throughout my volunteer work on the Obama campaign in the past several days, ones that have left photographic imprints on my heart.
One.
The same day that I canvassed and came upon the young girl who wanted God to be President, I knocked on the door of a white couple in their sixties. They brought me into their doorway, which is a canvassing no-no. We're not to enter homes. For good reason. Instead of allowing me to ask my three questions and move on, they demanded that I tell them why I voted for Obama. I explained my case, giving my personal reasons for supporting him. I believe in grassroots work. I respect the fact that he chose Christianity as an adult, as opposed to allowing faith to be a cultural decision. I believe him when he says that we are not as divided as some might think. His views and goals match up with mine; he cares about the general well-being of people. Etcetera, etcetera. And then they came after me with angry attacks, both aimed at Senator Obama and myself.
He's a socialist. He's a Muslim. He's the anti-Christ. He supports Acorn. He has a crazy pastor. He hangs out with terrorists. McCain's attack ads and Sarah Palin's rhetoric had clearly done well with this couple.
When I tried to leave, the man looked at me and asked me if I was a part of Acorn, and then told me that I need to learn to think. He told me that I needed to think long and hard about what I was doing. In his eyes, I was a domestic terrorist. I was stunned. I had no idea what to say. And so I told a story, a story about a family member whose health care needs have been overlooked by our government.
"I'm volunteering - not getting paid, sir - for Obama because we need change." And I wept. In the doorway. The woman looked at me for a split second, and I'd like to think that she saw me as a human, not a demon. I excused myself and moved on, willing myself to finish the route and wait to weep, silently, in my car.
Two.
I spent the majority of my time working in an inner city neighborhood, with the idea that most people in Clintonville are pretty aware of their rights, turn out to vote, and are crunchy in general. The Linden area needed my help. Monday evening, I arrived to do a literature drop with polling locations. I spent the evening doing this literature drop with my friend Theresa (who was in town from New York state and wanted to help) and five Somali high school boys.
We were a team, running down the streets, dropping signs on the doors of Obama supporters. These boys couldn't vote, yet they wanted to help. They excitedly asked me if I knew any state politicians, if I'd met Obama, and where I went to college. They wanted to know the details of Mary Jo Kilroy's policies (an answer I could not give them). They were energetic and bright.
When I asked them where they wanted to go to college, they all said Harvard.
"Where Barack Obama went," they explained.
I hope they make it. And after what happened yesterday, I'm a firm believer that anything can happen.
That, my friends, is what hope looks like. It's not that bad. And neither is patriotism.
